


Three Times Will Fell In Love

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Who Killed Markiplier Relevant [3]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 17:50:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13956861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: And three times he realized it a little too late.





	Three Times Will Fell In Love

The first time that Will fell in love, it was a bright summer day in 1899.

Mark had been sick that day, and it was William and Damien walking home along a dusty road. Both of them carried a backpack, emptied of schoolbooks and now filled with the remnants of their makeshift lunch and the spoils of an afternoon exploring the forest. William ate berries as they walked, laughing at Damien’s worry.

“I promise they’re edible, Damien.”

“As if!” Damien clutched his own bag close to his chest, eyeing William’s juice-stained front. “For all you know they could be poisonous.”

“I’ve been eating them—” William hiccupped, giggling, “—for _ages_. C’mon, try one!”

“Wi-ill,” Damien whined, hesitantly taking the berry that William handed to him, “are you sure?”

“Positive!” William smiled, ear to ear, teeth stained purple and red from the juice. “If they were poisonous, I’d be gone already.”

“How do you know it works that fast?” Damien examined the berry closely, bringing it up to eye level. “You could keel over ten minutes from now, and then what am I supposed to do?”

“Da—”

Damien sniffed it, ignoring William entirely. “And what if I’m allergic? It’s not like I have someone tasting all my food for me to make sure I’m not going to be assin—assan—assassinated,” he stuttered. 

“Just—”

“But what if—”

William, laughing, jumped forward to catch Damien off guard, cramming the berry into his protesting mouth. 

Damien stumbled, dribbling juice. “Will! That’ll stain!”

“I got you though!” William danced in place, watching Damien’s face eagerly. “It was good, right?”

Damien wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still muttering. “Yeah,” he grudged, catching William’s eye in a smile. “It was… okay.”

“Ha!” William skipped ahead, offering another handful of bright red berries. “Just a few, c’mon.”

Sighing, Damien accepted the berries before shoving William down, laughing. “You big dumb.”

“The very best,” William laughed, landing on his back in the dust. “We both know I’m your favorite.”

“Unfortunately so,” Damien giggled, collapsing next to him. It had been a long afternoon, and the opportunity to rest was accepted willingly. They sat in silence for a few moments: Damien popping berries cautiously into his mouth, William squinting up at the sky. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Damien said through a mouthful of juice. “What’s up?”

William pointed straight up, shading his eyes with one hand. “That cloud looks like a fox.”

Damien rolled onto his back, looking up. “Hmm.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it does.” Damien pointed to the right of them, berries forgotten. “And those look like rabbits.”

“Where?”

“Those three.” Damien outlined them with his finger, William’s eyes following. 

“The fox is going to eat them, right?”

“I mean, that’s how nature works, right?” Damien stretched against the ground, scruffy grass in his ears, and closed his eyes for a moment. “The strong eat the weak, or something.”

“Hmm.”

“Well,” Damien said, looking up again, “logically speaking, the fox would probably only be able to catch two of them.”

“What happens to the third one?” William’s voice was suddenly soft, and Damien glanced over to see the two of them close, close together, chests nearly touching. 

“I’d, er,” Damien cleared his throat, backing away a fraction of an inch, “I’d expect that it’d go home, find someone else to take care of it.”

“Won’t it miss them, though? Its friends?”

Damien sat up, acting as if he was looking off into the distance, trying to stop his heart pounding in his chest. “I don’t think it would remember.”

“What do you mean?”

Damien stood, busying himself with anything but William’s face, suddenly too, too close to his in the setting sun. “It’s getting late, Will, we should go home.”

* * *

William falls in love, head over heels, but doesn’t realize it until he’s looking down the barrel of a gun in South Africa. He shoots rabbits for food and other men for a cause bigger than himself, and loses himself in drink. It’s not until he’s far away from home that he realizes that he left his heart in America, slicked-back hair and calm voice at his party before deployment. 

The loneliness hits the hardest at night, and William plays it over and over again in his head. Damien’s brand-new title as Mayor, Mark as the heir to their father’s fortune, throwing him a going-away party. Damien’s voice as he says goodbye, early, saying he has a meeting in the morning. The clasp of their hands, the knowledge that they might never see each other again. The death sentence hanging above their heads.

That’s where William stops, and rolls over in bed, and stays very, very still until morning, hands pinned underneath him. He can’t—shouldn’t—imagine the rest, and least of all in the barracks with twenty-odd men. 

* * *

The second time that William falls in love, he has a mustache and thick glasses and the barest hint of a limp. He’s been honorably discharged, and no one speaks about what happened in Africa. Not to his face, at least. The past is behind him, and he’s waltzing through a party with the tint of liquor to make him forget what was almost his. 

Mark and Damien are there, and it almost feels like the old days again, walking home in the dust with thrice-skinned knees. 

Almost.

There’s a newcomer, and she’s vaguely familiar, hanging off of Mark’s arm. Mark turns, and Damien pulls her away for a moment to introduce them. 

“Celine.”

“Who—”

“My sister.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Iplier,” William murmurs, avoiding her eyelashes, swept low. He bends over her hand, and she responds in a voice like long-forgotten music.

“Please, Colonel,” and William looks up, heart in his throat, to meet her eyes. “Call me Celine.”

William realizes that he’s in love when he repeats her name, a sacred word on his lips. “Celine.” He knows he can never have her, but a part of him wonders what it is about Damien and Celine’s family that’s made the two of them the key to fit his lock. 

So he swallows the feelings, buries them deep, and carries on laughing with the others. A drink to forget the house, and another to forget the tug in his stomach when Celine—no, _Mrs. Iplier_ —looked his way. Another, and another, until he’s not quite sure how many drinks he’s had, and the moonlight falls like rain.

* * *

William wakes up, as he will often in the months to come, next to her. He doesn’t remember, he doesn’t want to remember: but Celine brushes a hand over his back, bare and scarred, and William can breathe for the first time in what feels like forever. There’s a distant ringing, the shadows always somehow darker in the mansion, and William ignores it. He pulls Celine, giggling, underneath him again. 

It ends, as it was destined to, and William can’t remember what compelled him in the first place. Celine is only Celine, after all, and Mark has always been the mountain to his valley. William stops speaking to the others, mustache bushy and mistress quiet. 

Celine is still _his_ , after all, and Mark gives them enough to keep them afloat. William figures that’s good enough, even if Damien won’t speak to them. 

No, no. This is good enough, he convinces himself. 

* * *

Will really doesn’t know how it happened. The halls of the house— _his_ house—are echoing with laughter. Who’s laughing? It must be Damien, stern, without so much as a stolen kiss. It must be Celine, giggling as he pulls her closer. He turns, and there’s a friend, a new face in black and white. 

“Damien?”

A sneer, the cracking of bone. “Who?”

* * *

The third time that Wilford fell in love, it twisted something long-dead, or at least dormant, in his stomach. 

“What’re you looking at?” Bim scowled, staggering under their victim’s weight.

“Nothing.” Wilford looked away, tamping his mustache with the flat of his hand. Maybe he was getting sick—the puddles of blood on the floor, viscera splattered on the walls, could do that to a person.

Bim huffed, shuffling away. The distinct _splat_ of dripping blood followed him down the hall, making for the basement. 

Wilford looked away, mopping, muttering to himself. Bim, their newest prodigy, was familiar in a way that made him want to roll over in bed and not move for a very long time. Maybe it had something to do with the suit, the slicked-back hair, the _what-if_ ’s. Maybe, maybe it was nothing at all. 

Bim hurried back, shoes clicking against the floor, and hurried up on stage. “I have a—a thing!”

“What?” Wilford paused, Bim’s words working through a fog. “A thing?”

“Yeah, look.” Bim clapped his hands, and Wilford took a step back. 

“Three, two, one!” It was hardly any warning, and Bim clapped his hands again, a puff of plum-colored smoke manifesting from his hands. 

“What is _that_?” Wilford waved the smoke away, squinting. 

“It’s a cat!” Bim held the animal up, half-coughing, looking as surprised as Wilford. “Wait—”

“That’s a _bunny_ , Bim.”

“Oh. Um, yeah. It’s a bunny!” Bim shook his head, laughing. “Close enough, right?”

“At least it’s a _whole_ bunny,” Wilford huffed, laughing. He reached out to pet its head, trying not to remember the last time that Bim had summoned the back half of a cat. 

In a poof of glitter, the bunny vanished, and Bim looked down at his hands, proud of himself. “And gone again!”

Wilford drew back, trying not to appear impressed. “Good job, Trimmer. Finish cleaning up, and we can work on larger mammals next time.”

Bim laughed, reaching for the mop. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Teach.”

Wilford turned to go, mind already jumping ahead to their next project. He didn’t notice Bim calling after him until he was almost at the door. 

“Wilford!”

“Wha-at?”

“One question, before you go.” Bim hesitated, leaning on the mop. 

“Shoot,” Wilford said, leaning against the door.

“Where do they go? I mean, after I, well—” Bim gestured to the glitter on the floor, the only remnants of the bunny.

Wilford’s breath caught in his throat. “I’d expect they go home, find someone else to take care of them.”

“Where’s home?”

Wilford waved Bim off, muttering. “I don’t remember.”

“But Will—”

“I said, _I don’t remember._ ” Wilford slammed the door, leaving Bim reaching out to no one. 

* * *

Wilford realized he was in love far too late: but once he did, a lifetime of gestures fell into place, glaringly obvious puzzle pieces.

Holding the door open, the jerk behind his ribs as Bim brushed past him. The way that his world had never been tinted purple, only ever shades of magenta. 

The two of them covered in blood, laughing, Wilford spinning them around. Bim’s smile, slow, confident. 

It was more than the things they did, really. Wilford closed his eyes, remembering, for the first time in several lifetimes. 

Bim’s face, drawn and serious, planning the next interview. His campaign, really, for leadership. Pointing out shapes, making up stories, but always, always cautious. Always a heart of gold.

Bim’s laugh, giggling even as Wilford scolded him for dropping lights and cues. His ambition, carefully laid plans, the way he saw and wanted and always, always, took too much. Always, “trust me, Will.”

His ambition, his downfall. 

Wilford spoke the words for the first time in any of his lifetimes in a whisper, eyes closed, fists clenched. “I love you.”

And when he opened his eyes, Bim was gone. 


End file.
